


Absolution in Sensation

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (AT LAST_, Asexual Characters, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley is a Softie, Emotions, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Wings, ace relationship, aziraphale loves one (1) demon, crowley loves one (1) angel, i guess this really is an ace sort of fic from me, injuries, they're both stupidly in love lmao, wing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: “Honestly angel, there’s no- no need to do this,” Crowley says even as he willingly burrows in the blankets and pillows that are far too numerous to be anything other than miraculously conjured. “I’m fine.”“You’re not fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes, insistent and unyielding as he continues to guide Crowley beneath the blankets and against the pillows. “You almost had one of your wings ripped clean off, Crowley—that’snotfine.”





	Absolution in Sensation

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so a nonnie on tumblr messaged me with: "I adore Aziraphale taking care of Crowley so much, touch starved demon boy needs snuggles" and I just- yeah. This did get away from me a bit.

“Honestly angel, there’s no- no need to do this,” Crowley says even as he willingly burrows in the blankets and pillows that are far too numerous to be anything other than miraculously conjured. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes, insistent and unyielding as he continues to guide Crowley beneath the blankets and against the pillows. “You almost had one of your wings ripped clean off, Crowley—that’s _not_ fine.”

The angel gently reaches out with his own wings—not in the physical plane—and brushes them against Crowley’s skin, silken white primaries that create every colour in the cosmos prickling with Soft Feelings Crowley doesn’t want to name. The sensation is welcome even if he won’t admit it to Aziraphale.

“Eh, I didn’t though,” Crowley points out and he’s mostly just arguing for the sake of it now. He is really, really comfortable. There’s heat emanating from Aziraphale’s hands on him and the reptilian part of his being wants to curl up in those hands and bask in the warmth for eternity. The part of him that’s less reptilian enjoys the feel of the hands in general. “Still got me wings. They even wiggle still.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley’s attempt at humour, focusing instead on undoing the buttons to Crowley’s shirt. The demon all but leaps out of the bed at that.

_“Aziraphale!”_

The angel blinks. “What?” he asks, “you don’t want to constrict your wings if they come into being on this plane,” he says, blinking at Crowley with some measure of impatience and concern.

“I- my- _they’re not affected by my clothing!”_ Crowley manages to splutter, sounding more startled than a Victorian lady faced with a lewd comment for the first time. 

“Not normally no,” Aziraphale agrees reasonably, like a reasonable person. “But you know that injuries to our wings can cause them to—that is—‘act out’ so to speak.” He gives Crowley that reasonable look of his that accompanies his reasonable tone. “You don’t want to be sound asleep and have yourself almost choked or a shirt ruined because your wings decide to ignore typical etiquette and get themselves tangled in your shirt—do you?”

It really was very annoying that Aziraphale could make things sound so reasonable... it was meant to be Crowley’s job—making anything sound like a reasonable plan or idea, not Aziraphale’s. Bloody angel was stealing his job.

“Fine,” Crowley says. “Fine,” he says again, “but—just let me take the damned thing off okay?”

“Of course dear.”

Oh, that was not helping. That was seriously not helping.

Crowley struggles with the buttons of his shirt—having to undo them the human way since any sort of miracling or magicking things away too close to where his wings come into being on the human plane would be... probably a bad idea. Painfully bad. Because of that, it takes Crowley an embarrassingly long time to undo the buttons before he realises, rather belatedly, that he can’t just shrug the shirt off like he could do normally.

Bugger.

“Angel, I need help,” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale looks at him only a little smugly and it helps to soothe the sting of having to ask for help after insisting he didn’t need any. 

“Of course my dear,” Aziraphale says and Crowley blushes. He can feel it creeping into his cheeks, staining his rather pale face with just enough pink to be noticeable and Crowley curses that he can’t do anything to hide it. 

Hell, he doesn’t even have his _sunglasses_ on.

Aziraphale helps him remove his shirt with little fanfare, Crowley doing most of the panicking and internally screeching at the angel Removing His Shirt for them both. The angel is, if Crowley were forced to pick a word, steady. Steadily focused. Steadily calm. Steadily kind.

Crowley finds it nauseating.

Crowley wants more of it regardless.

“Thanks angel,” Crowley mutters, not stammering or blushing like he feels he ought to—he’s a demon, he won’t do that even if he feels like every part of him is doing _precisely_ that—and he settles back in the bed, letting Aziraphale mother hen him with the covers. “If you wanted to see me with my shirt off though,” he adds, choosing to take some control over this, “you only had to ask.”

Aziraphale—as Crowley expects—blushes. It makes Crowley’s lips quirk up into a smirk at the angel’s pink cheeks.

Of course, that’s when Aziraphale does something Crowley _doesn’t_ expect.

The angel sits on the bed in a way that enables him to easily reach out and touch Crowley’s cheek with his left hand, right perched on the angel’s own knee. Aziraphale’s face is still pink from blushing but there’s fondness there in that expression—it’s the kind of fondness a partner has for their significant other (or others) when their love is secure and steady and needs no real expressions of it although they are appreciated.

“You really ought to be more careful with yourself, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes softly, fingers trailing along Crowley’s jawline, tracing the shell of an ear before finding their way into short red strands. Crowley, against every ounce of his stubborn will, leans into the touch.

“I’m always careful,” Crowley responds, not pulling away from those fingers gently massaging small circles into his scalp. The sensation is—well—heavenly. “You’re the one who almost got his head lopped off in Paris over crepes.”

Aziraphale smiles. “True,” he agrees amicably. “But I’ve never picked a fight with a human-made demon and almost had a wing torn off because I didn’t want for backup to arrive.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a look. “Not the same,” he says but Aziraphale’s gentle fingers rob him of any true vitriol. The angel robs him of a lot of things. “It was spitting hellfire left and right, angel. One ember and you’d have been in far worse shape than I am.”

“And with holy water I would have been able to stop it from attacking you in the first place, dear,” Aziraphale replies. There’s a bit of a sharp rebuke in the angel’s words but it’s softened by whatever Aziraphale’s actions are doing to both of them.

“I was afraid, Crowley,” the angel admits, eyes locking with Crowley’s own and full of pain. Pain Crowley’s circumstances have caused. “I arrived and saw you wrestling with that thing and you were bleeding and bloodied and I was terrified that I wasn’t going to be quick enough with the counter spell to unmake that thing before it finished you off. I saw you with a wing hanging by a few feathers and a broken bone and I- it- I feared I’d lose you even if that beast didn’t kill you.”

“I’m tougher than any human demon, angel,” Crowley says.

“That’s not the _point_!” Aziraphale exclaims and he leans forward, face close to Crowley’s own, his upper body almost flush with Crowley’s own. The demon can feel the heat emanating from the angel and he has the strongest urge to arch up into it.

“You are incredibly strong and powerful and I am _so_ _thankful_ for that because anyone else would have perished long before I even arrived,” he says and Crowley’s eyes widen at the compliments—Aziraphale doesn’t tend to compliment his strength, rather his ‘acts of kindness’. “But you were injured and I couldn’t help you fight it because I didn’t know _how_ to fight it with you right there and distracting you could have gotten you _killed_ so I had to watch and _hope_ the counter spell would work!”

Aziraphale tears his gaze away from Crowley who instantly reaches out with a slightly trembling hand to touch the angel’s own face. His fingers aren’t as gentle, as divinely caring, but there’s a heat to his touch that speaks of more than just the hellfire he can summon on command.

“I’m sorry angel,” he says, giving Aziraphale an apology with more heart and feeling in it than he’s ever given anything—not even She has ever had such an apology from Crowley, this is for Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone. “I didn’t want you to fight it, not when it could have killed you with one breath.”

Aziraphale lets out a shuddering breath, eyes falling shut. The angel looks so very broken and Crowley aches in a way he hasn’t ached for anything that wasn’t his car, his plants, or this single angel. “I know,” Aziraphale whispers, “it makes it worse. You would have died just to prevent any harm befalling me and I- I would have been left-” Aziraphale breaks off with a hitched breath.

“Alone.” Crowley stares at Aziraphale with open pain. “I know how it feels, angel,” he says, voice breaking. Aziraphale opens his eyes and looks at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but there was no way I was going to let you face that thing and I’m sorry I can’t regret fighting it and keeping it away from you,” Crowley says and he’s making an admission, confessing to the angel just how much he means to Crowley. In words he both says and doesn’t. “I’d rather my wings torn off and my soul destroyed than see you hurt- than lose you again.”

Aziraphale lets out a sad, aching laugh. “As would I,” he says.

“But,” Crowley continues and the angel gives him a vaguely hopeful look. “I’ve hurt you with what I did and that—well—we can’t have that,” he says and Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “So how about a deal—another Arrangement? We fight together no matter what, yeah?”

Crowley holds out the hand on Aziraphale’s arm and the angel’s smile grows wider, eyes a little wet as he withdraws his hand from Crowley’s hair to clasp the hand in a firm shake.

“Deal.”

“Great, now get in this bed with me and keep me warm,” Crowley says and Aziraphale really does let out a laugh at that.

“Always so bossy, dear,” the angel says even as he stands and moves to the other side of the bed. He toes off his shoes and settles on the bed, allowing Crowley to nestle close to him. “You really ought to get a heater.”

“I’ve got one,” Crowley retorts. Aziraphale gives him a look and Crowley smirks. “You.”


End file.
